Fistfights And Freefalls
by Amberssister
Summary: Season 5, post 'A Hole in The World'. All things must begin, and shared grief is a good place to start. Angel and Spike start to  work though their issues with violence and tenderness. A/S. Kinda Slash.


**A.N: This is just something I found on my laptop, but I liked it enough to post it. I almost never write **_**Angel**_** fic, so I will really appreciate any feedback. I hope you enjoy this!**

**Warnings: Mildest language, spoilers for **_**A Hole In The World**_**. Mild slash if you squint, but you don't have to squint too hard. If you don't like Angel/Spike, this is not the fic for you, though I believe you should read it anyway :) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. All rights belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and various other entities. I make to money, and intend no harm.**

It started simply, with insanity, as these things always seem to do. First there was the fight, a complete knock down, drag out, beat each other to a meaty pulp kind of fight. The kind they only seemed to have when the stakes weren't that high and the only prize was the feel of flesh hitting flesh, bruising and battering, tearing and ripping, simply because they wanted to and they could.

Next came the inevitable apologies that neither of them meant. They were only sorry that they hadn't hit a bit harder, moved a bit faster, and been just a touch more ruthless. This was followed by the very real apologies that came while they bandaged each other's wounds, partly because they didn't want to ask anyone else, mostly because it was part of the ritual of insanity that took up at least one night a month.

After, there were always drinks in disgruntled silence, whisky, nothing expensive, just Jack. And then they'd retire to their separate quarters – separate corners – to lick their wounds. It had gone like this, just like this, for weeks, and months. For years and centauries. There was a lot of history between them; too much history. Things they couldn't talk about, and things they wouldn't. Pain and anger, passion and love; all the little things that made better secrets than truths. So it went on this way, with them spelling it out on each other's skin, each bruise an emotion, each cut a memory.

Until one night when the ritual changed. Until the night their world changed. That night, with the knowledge of Fred's death still fresh and the pain still settling in, Spike distorted the pattern. Instead of fighting until neither of them had the strength to continue, instead of playing it out to its conclusion, he simply walked away. Mid-fight, before any winner could be declared, he stopped, hitched in a breath to speak, said nothing and walked away.

Angel watched his back as he limped towards the stairs, noticed how the set of his shoulders showed defeat. Not for this, not for the fight, but for her, and the world, and his life in general. Angel was surprised at how much he despised the way defeat looked on him. It wasn't something he'd never seen in Spike before, not even when he was broken and bound to a wheelchair. It felt wrong somehow, that he should be feeling it now, especially since Angel knew he was feeling the exact same thing. He hated that they could share anything, even this. He hated that Spike could feel anything at all. Spike stopped at the top of the stairs, but didn't turn around.

"It isn't really going well, is it?" he said, his voice thick with more than blood.

"What? What isn't?"

But Spike just laughed, a mirthless chuckle that Angel somehow knew wasn't accompanied by his know-it-all smirk. He straightened his shoulders and continued down the hall, leaving Angel alone in the darkened lobby. After a few minutes spent collecting himself, Angel followed him, tracing his scent through the labyrinth that was Wolfram & Hart. It led him to the roof, as he'd known it would. Some thing's don't change, even when they should.

xxxXXXxxx

It started coldly, in the rain, as these things are wont to do. Angel kept his distance for a while, just watching and waiting for Spike to acknowledge his presence. He knew that Spike could smell him through the L.A smog, and the L.A rain. He could smell the blood that still covered him, and he could smell the scent underneath it, the scent that was uniquely Angel. He could probably smell it through lead doors, but he didn't turn around, and Angel decided to leave. He wasn't sure why he'd followed him in the first place, and he'd be damned if he took it any further.

"Sometimes gone is just gone," Spike said, softly and suddenly, and Angel paused in his retreat. "Sometimes gone is permanent, and you just gotta understand that. When Joyce died, the little bit didn't get it. Tried to bring her back. Would have been an atrocity."

"Little bit?" Angel asked.

"Dawn. Niblet. She just didn't understand. When Buffy died, she accepted it. Innit that ironic? She cried plenty, broke my heart, but she let her go."

"Weren't you still evil?" Angel asked, his voice hard and cruel at the mention of Buffy. Spiked laughed another humorless chuckle.

"So? I loved that little girl. It didn't matter. I thought it would, I thought it'd be different with a soul, but it's not. Love feels the same; I still love the same people, now as then. Buffy and Dawn, Red, hell, even the boy. It just hurts more now."

He hadn't moved as he spoke, and he still didn't turn around, but he jumped onto the ledge surrounding the roof, standing on the edge, swaying in the rain. Angel walked over to the ledge, and leaned against it next to where Spike stood.

"You didn't have a soul, Spike. You can't love-"

"Oh, just shut up, you great pillock. Maybe _you _couldn't, maybe _Darla _couldn't, but _I_ bleedin' _did_. So much, I fought for my soul. So I couldn't hurt the people I loved, so I wouldn't be a monster anymore. Didn't matter, didn't work. Can't be the man I was, can't even be aman. Just gotta be what was made of me. What _you_ made of me." And for the first time he turned his head, and looked Angel in the eye.

"I've heard this song Spike. What do you want from me, an apology? You want me to say I'm sorry, you want me to take responsibility for the things you did, so you don't have to? It doesn't work that way. Every life you took, every depraved thing you did, that's on you. You want to be a man, you've got to learn to live with it."

Spike was silent, and Angel knew it wasn't because he was speechless, but because there was something here Angel was missing.

"If it isn't that than what, Spike? It's late, it's raining, and I don't have time for your games. If you have something to say then say it."

"How can it not be good enough? How can nothing be good enough? Too much monster, not enough man. I tried to fix it, but it didn't work. Still not good enough. I couldn't save her. I saved the whole bleedin' world, but I couldn't save the _one_ girl who thought _I_ was worth saving. _You _did this to me, you _caused_ this, and you can't even look at me. It hurts more now, everything hurts, and it's still not nearly enough."

He was still standing perilously close to the edge, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if he was trying to ward off the cold he couldn't really feel. Angel watched him silently, speechless, as myriad thoughts chased each other through his head.

The first was that Spike was rambling, not quite crazy talk, but not quite coherent, and he wondered if this is how Buffy had found him in that basement, wild and alone. He wondered if this was a hint of the insanity that getting a soul brought, the insanity Angel knew never really went away.

The second thought was that Spike always held himself when he was lost and hurting, and it was odd that he'd only noticed it now. He'd known the man for over a hundred years, but there were still things that surprised him, things he should have picked up on before, and that was strange.

The third thought was that it was sad that Spike had nothing to comfort him but the cold embrace of his own arms, and he jumped up on the wall, putting a tentative hand on Spike's shoulder.

"It doesn't get better," he said, "it never stops hurting. Every time someone dies, every time you can't stop it, it always reminds you of the things you did, of the people you hurt, and it makes you wonder how any of this can be worth it. It never stops. But it can be bearable; you have to make it bearable. You have to, or nothing you do will ever matter."

"Is that the moral, then? Christ, that's the worst sodding moral I've ever heard." Spike rolled his eyes, and turned his head to look out at the city sprawling beneath him.

"It ever bother you that we can't fly?" he said, a hint of a smile on his face. "Not that I've ever really tried. Maybe, I should. Just step off the edge, see what happens." He cast a look at Angel, and there was just a hint of humor in his eyes. Angel smiled.

"Trust me, it doesn't work. You'll just end up on the pavement with a broken back."

"Never seems to damage you any."

"Yeah, well you always broke easier than I did." The second the words left his mouth Angel regretted them. Any humor that had been there left Spike's eyes, and he cocked his head to the side, lips pursed. It was his standard 'go get bent' pose, and he looked just about ready to resume their earlier fight. Angel sighed and grabbed his wrist, a preemptive move against getting punched in the face.

"Spike-"

"Maybe that's cos no one ever got their rocks off breaking you." Spike interrupted, moving closer. "Not even Darla. I can't really say the same can I?"

"Spike, I didn't mean anything-"

"Get bent, you tosser." Spike pulled his arm back violently, trying to free his wrist, and the careless movement mixed with the wind and rain combined against him, and he lost his footing. Angel saw a look of surprise flit across his face as he went over the edge, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Spikes wrist. He held him for a moment, but the rain and the slick soles of his expensive Italian leather shoes did nothing for him, and he gasped as they both went down together.

xxxXXXxxx

It started with a freefall, as these things sometimes do. Thirty stories, three hundred feet, is an awful long way to the pavement, even for vampires. Angel hit the ground with a sickening thud, and, by some miracle that defied Murphy's Law, Spike didn't land on top of him. Angel lifted his head off the ground, saw the world go swimmy, and promptly passed out.

He woke up some indefinable amount of time later, and the first thing he noticed was that he was in his own bed. The second thing he noticed was that every single body part that could hurt did. He remembered Spike, fighting Spike, talking to Spike, Spike pulling him off the building

.

"Spike," he growled, and opened his eyes to see the vampire in question peering down at him.

" 'bout bleedin' time you woke up. Thought you might have slipped into a coma. Can vampires slip into a coma?"

"You bastard." Angel tried sit up, but the movement made him sick. Spike laid a hand on his chest, and pushed him down gently.

"You shouldn't move. You bounced and landed on your head. 'bout split your skull open. For a minute there I thought we'd discovered a new way to die."

He gave Angel a nervous smile, and pulled his arm back, using it to cradle his other one. Angel followed the movement, and noticed that Spike's left arm was twisted and mangled. He gave him a once over and discovered his entire left side was bruised and cut, more so than it had been.

"How bad is it?" Spike asked when Angel grimaced in sympathy.

"You look like walking death. That's what happens when you jump off the top of a building, you idiot."

"Hey, now, I didn't _jump_, I _fell_. And you didn't have to come with me, you poof."

"I didn't have a choice; I was holding on to you."

"And whose fault is that? I didn't ask you to follow me up there, I didn't ask you to get up on the bleedin' ledge, and I didn't ask you to hold my hand, so just sod off."

They sat in silence, glaring at each other, until Spike lowered his gaze. His eyes narrowed, either in pain or concentration, and he took a few shaky breaths he didn't need.

"I'm sorry," he said, his tone making it clear that he didn't mean the fall. No, not for that, but for her, for the world, and for his life in general. Those two words were heavy, and Spike looked about to break under the weight of them.

Angel sat quietly, unable to look at him. He hated what he'd seen in Spike's face, because it was something he'd felt himself, a million times, but the words were something he'd never thought to say. Not to Spike at least, because Spike was a demon, only slightly better than he had been, and he didn't deserve apology. Except… except that Spike had a soul now, and even when he hadn't, he'd been a better man than Angelus. At least it had seemed that way, sometimes.

If Angel was honest with himself, he'd never doubted that Spike hadn't lost his capability to love. He'd been there, he'd seen it, and it was one of the things that had made him think of himself as Spike's better, back in the days when they'd both been evil. It had been different for Angel, back then. What he'd felt for his little makeshift family hadn't been love. At least not the pure, clean love he felt for people now. It had been twisted, and dark, too dark to be _love_, but it had been an attachment of sorts. He'd felt something for them, even for Spike, and if he was _really_ honest with himself, a part of him still felt that way, for all of them. For Darla first and foremost, and for poor, mad, dangerous Dru, and yes, even for Spike. There was still an attachment there; still an obsessive, protective part of his mind that screamed 'mine!' whenever Spike got hurt.

That part of his mind had gone black when he'd heard Buffy say that Spike was dead, and had driven him to stay up drinking and drawing picture after picture of him, long into the night. It was a part of his mind that Angel truly hated, because it belonged to Angelus. _Spike_ belonged to Angelus. But, as Angel lie there, running these thoughts through his mind, he realized that wasn't really true anymore. Spike was different, and _he_ was different, and there was a chance that Spike was the one thing from his hellish past that could be made better, if he tried. There was a chance, slim though it was, that what he felt for Spike could be made pure and clean.

Angel struggled to sit up, ignoring Spikes reproachful comments, and rested against the headboard. He closed his eyes until the nausea passed, and the pain in his head subsided. When he opened them again, he realized he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to say. This was brand new territory and he didn't think 'hey, you know, I'm sorry for all that stuff I did when we were evil. Still friends, right?' was really going to cut it.

"William…" he started, and trailed off when he heard the word that had come out of his mouth. He looked at Spike to see if he was angry, but he was just sitting expectantly, eyebrow raised, waiting for Angel to finish. Angel too a deep breath, and just started talking.

"All those things I did to you… the ways I hurt you… it was beautiful. I broke Dru before I turned her, but you William, I broke you _after_. Just to see if I could, just to see what would happen. And it was glorious. Every time you got that look on your face, every time your eyes hardened and lost a little bit more of the humanity you'd managed to hold onto… it was like the finest wine. Destroying a human, that was fun, but a demon? That was special. And the best part, the coup de grace, was that even if you fought back, you were still becoming what I wanted you to be. A fighter, a killer, a deviant just like me."

Angel's voice was tight, and he felt like he was choking on the horror of his words. He wanted to look at Spike, wanted to finish what he'd started, but he couldn't do either until Spike responded to what he'd already said. Spike sat silently for long enough Angel was beginning to think he'd left. Then quietly, in an almost whisper he said, "I guess I knew some of that. That's sick, Angel. Sickening."

Angel forced his eyes to meet Spikes, and he was almost surprised to see that he wasn't crying. He'd sounded like he was. But, of course, Spike didn't cry. That was a weakness Angelus had never stood for, and he'd taught Spike well. Angel pushed the thought from his mind, realizing that it was just a stall tactic. He'd never cared about the things he'd done to Spike, but now that he had too, now that it mattered, it was physically painful to admit how much he'd hurt him, and how much pleasure he'd gotten out of it. He continued to hold Spike's gaze, and forced the words to come out.

"Getting off on others peoples suffering, that was what Angelus was all about. What _I _was all about. But, that isn't the worst part. Hurting you wasn't the most evil thing I ever did to you was it? The evilest thing was that through all of it, I made sure you loved me. I knew you could, and I wanted it, so I made you love me. The more I burned you, the hotter you burned, right?"

Spike's eyes squeezed shut, and for the first time in recent memory, Angel saw a tear slide down his cheek. One single tear, but it was enough to rip loose the sobs that Angel had been locking in his throat.

"My God, Spike, I'm so sorry," he choked out, and then he forced it all back, the words and the emotions and the tears, because he still didn't want to show this weakness in front of Spike, not even now. When he'd gained control of himself, he saw that Spike had done the same, he face now dry and impassive. But, his eyes were alive, burning with anger and hatred, and something else that Angel couldn't identify.

Spike stood up quickly and violently, sending the chair he'd been sitting in careening into the wall, and headed to the bed, fists clenched. Angel had time to wonder if he would hit him, or dust him, and then Spike was there, inches from his face, hands planted on either side of his head. His eyes moved restlessly, searching Angel's face for something, and when he didn't find it he said, "Yeah. I loved you. That's the sickest part, innit? That it worked, that I became what you wanted, what you needed me to be, and that I still loved you. You were my teacher, my guide, you were everything that she couldn't be, and I loved you for it. No. That's still not right. You wanna know your crowning achievement? The sickest part is that I _still_ love you, even as you are. So, how about you hero? You feeling sick yet?"

Spike was screaming, loud enough to hurt Angel's ears, but his hands were shaking, rattling the headboard against the wall. Angel put a hand on his chest, trying to calm him, and Spike batted it away with his right arm. His mangled left arm gave out under his weight, and he fell abruptly, landing across Angel's legs.

They both gave a surprised yelp of pain, and then Spike was standing, cradling his arm, face twisted in a mask of hurt. It would almost have been funny, except for the fact that Angel's legs were still aching from the fall, and now they were on fire. He sat forward to grab them, sending a bolt of pain through his head and making his stomach flip. He moaned and fell backwards. He was sure he was going to hit the headboard, and then they _would_ discover a new way to kill a vampire, but Spike's arm, his good arm, was suddenly behind him, easing him back down.

"You are an insufferable git," Spike said through pain-clenched teeth. "Christ, do you try to suffer? Weren't for me, you'd be dead by now I reckon."

And then Spike's knees went out, the rage that had been fueling his rampage gone, and Angel could see that he was exhausted and far more injured then he'd let on. Angel touched his head gently, carding his fingers through the rain softened bleach-blonde curls.

"Come on," he said. "You're in no shape to go home. Get in bed, and we'll sleep, and tomorrow we can try to deal."

Spike nodded and shakily eased himself into the bed, lying on his right side, facing away from Angel. On impulse, Angel reached his arm out and lightly rubbed Spikes back, making the other man shiver. Angel pulled back, and Spike laughed, lightly.

"Don't stop, you ponce. Feels nice."

Angel allowed himself a small smile, and continued his ministrations.

"Your arm is going to be a problem. Might take a week to heal, and you're left handed. Well, more left-handed than right-handed. You fight better with your left arm; you're stronger in it."

Spike scoffed. "I can't believe you remember that," he said.

"I didn't" Angel replied. "I probably never even noticed, not then. I noticed when you were still a ghost. You usually picked things up with your left hand, and now, when you use a weapon, you use it left-handed."

"How very observational of you. What's Percy, then?"

"Hmm? What?"

"Wesley. He a righty or a lefty?"

Angel thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. "At the moment, I honestly couldn't tell you. Righty, I think, maybe. I'm not sure."

He felt Spike stiffen under his hand, and then the other man turned over, slowly. He was frowning, and Angel honestly couldn't figure out why.

"What?" he asked, and Spike ran his tongue across his bottom lip.

"So, what? You just been sizing up the enemy, is that right? Seeing how I fight, so you can suss out my moves, be ready when I turn on you? That it?"

Angel laughed, rolling his eyes. "God, Spike, you are an idiot. I've been fighting you for over a hundred and twenty years; I know all your moves. I _taught_ you most of them. I just noticed, no big deal. Besides, Wes was an enemy once."

Angel wanted to suck the words back in the second he'd released them, wanted to swallow them back down where they weren't real, and he could forget their validity.

"Percy? An enemy? When? What did he do, knick a sweater?"

Angel closed his eyes, not yet ready or willing to talk about it, especially not after the night he'd already had.

"Not now, Spike. Now isn't the time. I'll tell you someday, but not today."

"Someday?" Spike asked, his voice more curious than pressing.

"Yeah," Angel said in a whisper. "You're the only person I can tell. The rest of them, they wouldn't understand, and they _can't _know. _Especially Wes_. You can't say a word to him. Not one word, Spike, I mean it."

Spike nodded, not questioning even though it had to be one of the oddest requests he'd ever heard. "I promise," he said, "Wes won't hear a peep from me."

"Thank you," Angel said, closing his eyes.

A long moment went by with no movement or sounds from either of them, and Angel was just fading into sleep when Spike grabbed his hand. He brought it to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against the palm, something Angel could remember him doing back when he was William. This wasn't subservience though, as it had been in those days. This was forgiveness, and camaraderie, and maybe just a bit of supplication that he would receive those things in return. Angel felt the hair on his arms raise, and he squeezed Spike's hand tightly before letting it go. If those were things he could receive, then they were things he could give.

xxxXXXxxx

It started, as all things must. Angel woke up late the next morning, still feeling sick, but able to move and stand by himself. As he stood at the microwave heating two mugs of blood, he realized he wasn't sure _what_ had started. Something, that was certain.

Something that had Spike sleeping in his bed, which should be awkward, but it wasn't. It seemed right somehow. After all these years, after everything they'd done to each other, there was still love between them. Maybe it was dark, strange and admittedly violent love, but it existed, and now that they were able to face that, it could become something else. And whatever that was, be it brotherly, or fatherly, or what Angel strongly suspected it would become, it had to be better than what it was. Better than what it have ever been. The persistent _beep, beep, beep_, of the microwave finishing it's cycle brought Angel out of his reverie, and he smiled to himself gently as he brought breakfast to whatever something was in his bed.

FIN

What did you think? Let me know if the fancy takes you, and thank you for reading!


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